The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles (5 page)

SIX

It was raining hard when the children woke the following morning.

Ben was sure they would not be going on a picnic in such weather. He predicted that the professor would cancel the whole thing.

The professor phoned at midday, but only to confirm with Mrs. Potter that it was all right for the children to meet him at two thirty that afternoon.

By two o'clock Lindy, Ben and Tom looked as if they could attempt an expedition to the North Pole. They wore heavy sweaters and trousers tucked into thick rubber boots. Lindy had on a cape that she often wore when she walked to school. It was a very sensible covering because she could keep her hands dry inside, and her books too. She wore a large sou'wester that came down so low on her head that only her nose and chin were visible beneath it.

Tom wore a duffel coat with the hood pulled up and a scarf, and Ben had on an old raincoat and an oilskin hat that his father used when he went fishing.

Professor Savant was waiting for them on the porch when they arrived. He was wearing a most extraordinary outfit—long waterproof pants and a transparent plastic coat tied at the waist, which gave a balloonlike effect to the upper half of his body. He wore a peaked cap and sturdy, heavy brogues covered by plastic overshoes.

He greeted the children with his customary enthusiasm. "Hallo there!" he yelled. "Isn't this just a marvelous day? I love the rain, don't you?"

"How are we going to have a picnic?" asked Tom. "You'll see. You'll see."

The professor disappeared behind the house, and a moment later reappeared pushing the oldest bicycle the children had ever seen. The handlebars were bent, spokes were missing, the seat was tilted at a ridiculous angle and the whole contraption made a terrible squeaking sound.

"I haven't ridden one of these things for quite a while," said the professor. "Now, let me see." He attempted to swing a leg over the saddle. "Ha-ha.

This is going to be tricky." He tried again, this time successfully enough, at least to get his feet on the pedals. With fierce concentration he began to wobble around the drive.

"Just getting warmed up," he announced with a grin, at which point his trousers caught in the chain and he came to a shuddering stop. "Oh, fiddlesticks."

The children giggled.

"Mrs. Primrose," he yelled, "I need bicycle clips!" He yanked the bike into an upright position. "Bicycle clips, sir? You don't have any."

"Bother. What am I going to do?"

"Tuck your trousers in your socks," Tom suggested.

"Good idea. But my socks are too short, my underwear's too long and it would all get wet in the rain."

The professor illustrated this by hitching up his trousers. The children had a glimpse of white long johns on his skinny legs and a pair of startling red socks.

"I do have these, sir, if you wouldn't mind wearing them." Mrs. Primrose put a hand in her apron pocket and shyly produced a pair of lavender garters.

The professor raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.
"Well,"
he said, "I haven't seen a pair of those in a long time. They'll do splendidly, Mrs. Primrose." He folded his trousers and put the garters over them. "I think they look very fetching." He hopped about in the rain to show them off.

Mrs. Primrose pointed to his bicycle. "I do wish you wouldn't ride that thing, sir. It's lethal, really it is.
^"

"Nonsense, woman. I shall be perfectly all right. Well, come along, Potters. The afternoon will be over before we get started."

He climbed on the bicycle and began to wobble his way down the drive. The children hurriedly pedaled after him, calling goodbye to an anxious-looking Mrs. Primrose.

It soon became apparent that not only was the professor's bike dangerous to ride, but the professor was a definite road hazard. He had a strong tendency to aim his bike at an object—a tree, a car, a pedestrian—and only at the last second would he swerve to avoid it. He turned corners sharply without so much as a hand signal and the children were never certain what he would do next. They discovered that it was easier and safer if they rode a few yards behind. The professor seemed to need most of the road for himself.

Lindy was rather concerned. "Are you going to be all right?" she called.

"Yes, Lindy. No cause for alarm. I'll get the hang of this thing in a while."

They pedaled slowly through the outskirts of the town. The children liked the feel of the raindrops on their faces. Their bicycle tires made a pleasant hissing sound on the wet road and sent up small fountains of spray.

The professor led them into a delightful country area. Busy streets gave way to empty lanes where the wet trees dripped noisily onto the thick carpet of fallen leaves. The ride obviously began to have a soothing effect on the professor, for he soon became less erratic and the children were able to pull abreast of him.

The professor began to sing "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain." He had a terrible voice, but his enthusiasm was contagious. The children joined in.

"You're not singing nearly loud enough," cried the professor. "I can't hear you at all."

The children sang at the tops of their voices. Fortunately there was no traffic about, because now they were all bicycling in a haphazard way and laughing so much that half the time they weren't looking where they were going.

The professor suddenly swung his bike off the road and onto a small track.

"Where is this?" asked Tom as they bumped and jogged their way along.

"This is where we have our picnic," replied the professor. He turned into an open field and braked to a halt in front of a dilapidated stone building.

"What a funny house," said Lindy. "Who owns this place?"

"I do." The professor removed a picnic basket from his bicycle and led the way through the tall wet grass to a large door at the front of the building.

"Ben, put a shoulder to this with me. You too, Tom."

The professor pushed hard against the heavy door and the boys added their weight to his. The door began to move and, after a second push, it swung open. The boys stumbled through a cloud of dust into a long, high room.

"What a great place," Ben declared.

"I'm glad you like it." The professor smiled proudly. "This old barn is all that remains of a farmhouse. I might restore the place one day. In the meantime, it seemed like a good spot to come and have a picnic."

"Look, I've found a horseshoe!" Lindy cried excitedly.

"Well, that's a lucky beginning. Now, we'd better get started on a fire; otherwise it'll be too damp and
cold in here. Boys, go to the back of the house. There should be plenty of dry kindling under the trees. Lindy, help me put this cloth down so that we can spread our picnic on it."

It didn't take long to get things organized. Quite soon, everyone was sitting in the middle of the stone floor around a crackling wood fire.

The children were starving. Mrs. Primrose had packed all manners of goodies for them: sausage rolls
and peanut butter sandwiches, a sponge cake with jam, and oatmeal cookies and bananas. There were milk and ginger ale to drink.

"This is really terrific," said Tom, his cheeks rosy from the fire and his mouth full of cake.

The professor pushed his plate away and leaned back on one elbow. "Tell me your favorite word, somebody. Better still, tell me the three nicest words you can think of."

"Yellow. Sunshine. Mother-of-pearl," Lindy said quickly.

"Splendid. What about you, Ben?"

"Acetylsalicylic," the boy replied.

'What's that?" asked Tom.

"It's what aspirin is made of, isn't it, Professor?"

"Right, Ben. The chemical name for aspirin is acetylsalicylic acid. That is a good word. It rolls off the tongue nicely."

Tom said, "I've got the best word. Antidisestablishmentarianism."

"Oh, everybody knows that," Ben pointed out.

"Does everybody know what it means?" asked the professor. The children were silent. "It's no use using a word unless you know about it. Antidisestablishmentarianism. The word came out of nineteenth-century England. We'll look it up when we get home."

"What's
your
favorite word?" Lindy asked.

"Good heavens. There are thousands that I like.
"

"Choose one."

The professor thought for a moment. "Papilionaceous," he said. "From Latin, meaning resembling a butterfly, or shaped like a butterfly. The French word for butterfly is similar. It's
papillon."

"Papilionaceous. That's lovely," said Lindy. "Your name is French, isn't it, Professor?" Ben asked suddenly. "Isn't Savant a French name?"

"It is indeed. My father was French. My mother was an American."

"Do you have any children?"

"Yes, Lindy, I have two grown-up daughters. The eldest is married to a dentist in Boston, and the youngest is with the Peace Corps."

"What about your wife?" Ben asked.

"She passed away many years ago." The professor
gazed into the fire. "She was very pretty. She loved to travel and to give parties. You might say she was papilionaceous. A very sweet butterfly."

He leaned forward and threw another log into the flames. "Speaking of butterflies, wait until you see the ones they have in Whangdoodleland. You won't believe your eyes."

"What's so special about them?" Tom asked eagerly.

"Well, they're about the size of a robin and brilliantly colored. They're called Flutterbyes."

"Wow. If butterflies are as big as robins, then how big are the birds?" Ben laughed.

"Well, one bird is quite big," replied the professor, "and I can't wait for you to meet her. She's the Whiffle Bird. She's quite wonderful and very, very beautiful. She'll be a good friend to us in Whangdoodleland, for she loves company, although she is shy and easily frightened. Now, we had better continue our lessons, or you'll never get to see her at all. Ben, throw me one of those ginger-ale bottles. This wood smoke is making me thirsty."

Ben took a bottle from the picnic basket and handed it to the professor who proceeded to shake it violently. "Watch out," he said with a grin and unscrewed the cap. A fountain of ginger ale shot into the air. The children screamed with delight.

"I haven't done that since I was a boy," said the professor wickedly. "My word, look at all those bubbles. Hold the bottle up to the light. It's like a waterfall, only falling up instead of down."

Lindy said, "The bubbles are like tiny crystal beads. How do they get in there?"

"That's the carbonation," replied the professor. "What's carbonation?"

"Adding carbon dioxide to liquid. Since gas is lighter than liquid the bubbles rise, as you see." He held the bottle close to his ear. "Listen, they make a nice hissing sound."

Lindy took the bottle and listened. Her face registered surprise. "Ooh, it goes up. The noise goes up."

The professor said, "You must practice the art of listening. It will be most important when we get to Whangdoodleland. Do you ever lie in bed and count all the things you can hear?"

"I do," said Tom. "I can hear Mom in the kitchen in the morning and Ethel using the vacuum cleaner, and cars and airplanes and birds. It's nice. Trouble is I never want to get up."

"Listen to the noises right now," said the professor. The children were silent. They heard the rain, a bird calling out in the wood, the fire crackling.

"I'd like to try an experiment," said the professor. "I want you all to close your eyes and keep them closed until I say you can open them. Now I want you to tell me what you can smell. For instance, can you smell the smoke from the fire?"

"Yes," chorused the children.

"Okay. Can you smell the dampness and the rain?"

After a moment's hesitation they nodded.

"Good. Anything else?"

Tom kept his eyes tightly closed and concentrated.

"It smells dusty in here, like hay."

"Good boy," said the professor. "Ben, what am I holding under your nose? Keep your eyes closed."

Ben sniffed, then grinned triumphantly. "Plastic
raincoat," he said.

"Lindy, what's this?"

Lindy smelled something vaguely familiar, yet she
couldn't quite place it.

"Peanut butter?"

"Terrific," said the professor. "All right, Tom. Keep your eyes closed. What's this?"

"Banana."

"And this?"

Tom sniffed. "I'm not quite sure."

"Can't you smell toasted marshmallow?"

The boy hesitated.

"I'll hold it closer, Tom. Can you smell it now?"

"Yes. Yes, I can."

"Let me smell!" cried Lindy. "Mmm. That's good."

"What about you, Ben? Do you smell it?"

"That's funny. I don't."

"Quite sure?"

Ben tried again. "Yes, quite sure."

"Very well, you may open your eyes," said the professor.

Ben looked aroun
d. "I don't see a marshmallow."

"That's because there wasn't one," replied the professor.

"But I smelled it," cried Tom. "I really did."

"I know. I'm delighted. It means you're beginning to make your imagination work for you."

"I wish I could have smelled it," said Ben wistfully.

"You will, Ben. Your turn will come." The professor began to pack what was left of the picnic into the basket. "I think we had better start heading for home. We've quite a ride in front of us, and I don't want to be out after dark without lights. Ben, pour this ginger ale on the fire, will you?"

The children reluctantly helped the professor to tidy up. They donned their raincoats and walked outside to their bicycles.

"I wish we weren't going," said Lindy with a backward glance at the barn.

"We will come again another day." The professor looked up at the sky and drew in a deep breath of rain-fresh air. "I think it's going to clear up." He paused to watch a large bird flying silently across the field toward the wood. "Look. Look. It's probably going to roost for the night. How I'd love to be a bird."

"A Whiffle Bird?" asked Tom with a grin.

The professor chuckled. "No. I'd settle for being a skylark, or maybe a kestrel." He swung up onto his bike and began to pedal unsteadily toward the road.

"Do you know how homing pigeons home, Ben?" he called as the children followed after him.

"No, sir."

"It's probably vision. And it's thought that dolphins use vision above water and guide themselves by the stars." He swerved to avoid a chuckhole. "Amazing, isn't it?"

Lindy brought her bike alongside the professor's.

"You know so much," she said. "Don't you sometimes feel bewildered when you think of the millions of things that put life together?"

The professor smiled. "I'm not bewildered. I'm filled with the deepest awe and wonder. The miracle is that in its complexity it all works." He bumped through a puddle and was drenched with water.

"Oh, fiddlesticks, I'll never get the hang of this contraption."

For the rest of the journey he grumbled and swore at his bicycle. This kept the children in fits of laughter, which was his intention, since it took their minds off the long ride home.